


Out of Time

by dashakay



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashakay/pseuds/dashakay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wonders if she looks the same to him. If she feels the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Time

In the bathroom at the Calgary airport, she shoves her hair inside a baseball cap and dons a pair of huge sunglasses. Banff isn't exactly rife with paparazzi and she's not much of a target these days, anyhow. Still, the area is popular with Japanese tourists with cameras around their necks. Best to keep a low profile.

*

The old house is tucked into the side of a mountain, overlooking a lake that's a psychedelic blue from suspended glacial silt. It's nothing fancy, just a cedar A-frame with a living room, bedroom, kitchen and bath. It belongs to her agent's sister and she books it for four days every summer.

On the deck, she settles on a wide, cushioned chaise lounge, glass of wine in hand. She gapes at the mountains, made of shale, sandstone, limestone and quartzite, formed more than eighty million years ago. A spectacular gift of nature, completely unlike the gray and damp welter of London.

She turns her face to the late afternoon sun, closes her eyes. She doesn't hear his approach and startles when she feels his hands on her shoulders. He buries his face in her hair.

*

He traces her palm with his index finger like a palm reader. She wonders which the life line is and which the love is. She can never remember. He looks good, his face lightly tanned from a Malibu summer, just a few new lines around his eyes. "How are you, really?" she asks.

She wonders if she looks the same to him. If she feels the same.

*

The never talk about his wife, whatever boyfriend she may have, their children. They barely even touch on their careers. In this place, they exist out of time, out of history.

*

He slides into her on the chaise lounge. His shirt is still on, though unbuttoned, and her jeans and underpants are stubbornly dangling one foot.

It's been a year, but she hasn't forgotten the rhythm of his long, confident thrusts or the way her body strains to meet him. Her orgasm flares in her in the same colors as the sunset against the mountains.

She'd like to know what colors he sees when he comes.

*

It never fails to surprise her that he's a good cook. They eat his pasta with wild mushrooms in front of the fire, he in his boxers, she wrapped in a bathrobe. They are both still pink from the shower they took before dinner.

"I talked to Chris before I left. He thinks next year could be it." His hand slides up her thigh.

She rolls her eyes. "He says that every year."

He clears away the dishes and returns to lay her down on the rug. His tongue etches intricate designs, swirling on and around her clitoris. She shamelessly spreads her legs wider, laying herself completely bare for him.

*

Once a year, for four days. It's enough. Maybe too much.

*

Lying together on the chaise lounge, wrapped in a blanket, they count stars and laugh at half-forgotten private jokes.

*

The bed has an iron bedstead and is covered with a patchwork quilt. It squeaks in protest as he moves to kiss her ass; his finger, slick with lube, slides inside. "Jesus," she mumbles into the pillow.

"No, it's just me." He laughs at his own pithy joke.

She groans as she feels the head of his cock pressing its way in. He's the only one she's ever let do this. It's their secret act, somehow sacred. His lips latch onto the back of her neck.

"Do you ever wonder?" he says, thrusting harder.

Her hand struggles under her body and she finds her clit, presses her fingers against it. "Wonder what?" she manages to say.

"What if?" His hands grip her hips so hard she worries he'll leave bruises.

"We'd be a disaster and you know it," she whispers.

"I know it, but I like to think about the possibilities," he says.

He drives faster into her, coming up on the finish line, his breathing coming in shallow pants. It burns to be fucked like this, but perhaps she deserves the pain.

*

Morning sun on the deck and it smells like warming cedar wood and leaves. She arranges her aching legs into the lotus position. She tries to clear her mind of the mundane details of waking life - her schedule, her daughter's upcoming school year, the fact that they only have three days left before re-entering the world.

She breathes deeply and allows herself to only feel gratitude for being in this moment, out of time.

END


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